


Needs

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale loves Crowley, Crowley is a Softie, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, aziraphale gets sick, aziraphale is uncomfortable with having needs, contains That Scene from 1967, ends post-armageddoff, pure softness with a little angst thrown in the middle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Angels are powerful. Angels are dangerous. Angels do not need anyone else. Except when they need the care of a demon - and in that case, it often takes them six thousand years to own up to it.Four times Crowley asks Aziraphale what he needs, and one time Aziraphale admits the truth.





	Needs

**1.**

Aziraphale can do miracles. Sometimes he has to remind himself of this, when he’s lived as a human, among humans, for so long - sometimes he has to process once again that he is not one of them. Not like them. Sometimes he has to stare into the cold gaze of Gabriel or Michael, hear words of exasperated reprimand, to remember that he is not really soft, not really gentle. That he is a being of power and danger.

It doesn’t help that there’s a force in his life so endlessly determined to make him forget.

“Angel?” comes Crowley’s voice from the bookshop’s doorway. 

Aziraphale is behind a shelf, and can’t see Crowley’s face. “What is it, dear?”

“Just stopped over to say I’m going to the supermarket. Gonna poke holes in the bottoms of all the shopping bags. D’you need anything while I’m there?” 

And it’s easy to smile, easy to let fondness bubble up inside him - _dangerous, he’s a demon, he’s the enemy, why can’t you keep that in your head?_ \- and tempt simple, casual words off his tongue. But Aziraphale bites those words back. Not because he fears Crowley, but because accepting such a favor, from anyone really, would be patently absurd. “Oh, no thank you.” 

“You sure?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” He’s an angel; he doesn’t need to eat at all, and if he should feel peckish, he can miracle himself up any food he wants. Asking a friend to go grocery shopping for him is absolute human nonsense. 

But Crowley is insistent. “Come on, angel. It’s no trouble.” 

“Just go perform your silly temptations if you must, and I’ll take care of -”

“Aziraphale. Anything you need.” 

And _there_ it is. Aziraphale is sure it’s meant only as an idle phrase, _anything you need,_ and it ought to make him smile again, and it does, a little - but it makes his chest contract too. This dance he and Crowley do, of favors and compliments and little understandings, is only sustained by Aziraphale’s own determination to set boundaries for it. If he lets himself do everything he wants - express all he feels, and _has_ felt since a long-ago bombed church and a bundle of undamaged books - it will fall apart. There are certain things angels simply aren’t supposed to feel for demons. 

Still, he relents. “Oh, very well then - I suppose I could do with some strawberries.” 

“Strawberries.” Aziraphale hears the nod of a head, the turn back toward the door, toward outside - six thousand years of knowledge has created a certain familiarity between them. “Got it. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Thank you,” he says, and hears the demon’s smile before the door shuts. 

Aziraphale tries hard not to be flooded with warm affection. He tries to rationalize away his desire to hug himself and grin stupidly at the ceiling - dangerous, foolish, obscenely human of him. But he allows himself a little more pep in his movements as he continues to shelve books. Surely no angel can object to that much? 

**2.**

Aziraphale can control the movements of his own body. He can tell his heart to beat or still, his breath to come or go. He can command alcohol out of his blood and heal broken bones with the snap of a finger. It shouldn’t be difficult for him to simply will his sinuses clear. But here he is curled up in bed, lacking the energy. 

At first when the bell rings downstairs in the shop, Aziraphale is struck with a burst of dismay - oh, has he forgotten to lock up the shop? Anyone could come in and steal something valuable, or worse, try to _buy_ something. But in the next moment he relaxes again. It’s just Crowley. He can tell from the footsteps. 

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale’s voice rasps. “I’m upstairs!” 

Crowley is there in the blink of an eye, the door opening, light spilling from the hallway into Aziraphale’s dim bedroom. Crowley is outlined in silhouette. Aziraphale doesn’t attempt to make himself look more presentable - he knows he’s a mess, here in the midst of tangled blankets and pillows and mountains of tissues, his pajamas rumpled and his nose bright red, but he can’t find it in himself to fix it for the demon. 

“Well, well,” says Crowley, stepping farther into the room, fading from a dark outline to his ordinary shape. “I didn’t know angels got colds.” 

“We aren’t supposed to,” Aziraphale mumbles, miserable. “What do you want?” 

Crowley moves closer to the bed. “Well, I was going to talk business, but I can’t very well do that when my sworn enemy’s bedridden, can I?” He smirks down at Aziraphale. “How wily of you.” 

Aziraphale gives a half-hearted laugh. 

“Let me help.” He miracles the pile of used tissues off the bed and summons a fresh box, placing it beside Aziraphale. “Tell me what you need. Medicine? Tea?” 

“Nothing.” Aziraphale shakes his head. He pushes away an errant picture of Crowley’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, embracing him, absorbing the heat of his fever. “There’s no need - I’m just fine. I’ll be recovered by morning. I’m an angel.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’ve never known you to pass up food. What about tea and soup?” 

The offer is so candid, so artless, that Aziraphale finds a lump rising in his throat. Oh, why does Crowley have to be so _kind?_ It would be so much easier if he were cruel. Aziraphale is the angel, he ought to be the kind one; he’s the one tasked with spreading God’s goodness and light through the world, and here he is huddled in bed, accepting favors from a demon. What would Gabriel say, if he could see Aziraphale now? How much cold disappointment would run through that false, fixed smile? 

“Fine,” Aziraphale whispers. “Tea and soup, yes. Thank you.” 

“You sound hideous.” Crowley saunters back toward the door without a backward glance. “Rest your voice. I’ll be up soon with the tea, and I’ll bring you a book to read, how’s that?” 

“Mmm.” Aziraphale sinks farther into his pillows, glad Crowley can’t see his reddening cheeks. When the demon has disappeared, he covers his face with his hands, eyes burning and mouth stretched wide into an idiotic smile. It’s several minutes before he trusts himself to peel his fingers away, and look merely polite when Crowley returns. 

**3.**

Aziraphale cannot die. Aside from direct contact with hellfire, angels don’t ever die - anything that renders his current body unusable will simply result in his being issued another one. But the experience of discorporation is tremendously unpleasant, and he’s started to think of it with more dread as time goes on - no doubt influenced by silly human fears about death, because, as Uriel says, he’s been down here too long. 

When he wakes tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse, a gun pointed at his head, he finds himself far more upset than he should be about the prospect of paperwork. 

“I can’t figure out who you are,” says the gun’s wielded, a man wearing a mask over his eyes. “Clearly someone wealthy and powerful in hiding - that stupid fake name, no relatives we could find, that bookshop that never sells any books - but who _are_ you, really?”

Aziraphale isn’t listening. He’s sweating, racking his brains for some miracle-free way of escaping the situation. If he shows up in Heaven and has to admit his temporary hiatus from miracles has gotten him killed, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe if he just does a tiny one, loosens the ropes… but what about the gun? 

It’s when he’s on this spiral, and his captor has gone off on a tangent that Aziraphale is not listening to, that time, seems to hang suddenly still. 

Breath catches in Aziraphale’s throat. In the next moment he sees a faint, blurred shape in front of him. 

_Aziraphale?_

Aziraphale squints forward. “Crowley?” 

_Aziraphale, you’re not at your bookshop. There’s signs of a struggle here at the back door. What happened? Where are you?_

And Aziraphale feels it again, that warmth, the emotion that threatens to break down the world Aziraphale has always lived in, always known. _Crowley._ The sight of his enemy fills him with relief. He’s thrown back to a church, then to Paris, and his fear of discorporation recedes - he tries hard not to beam at the indistinct shadow. 

“I do believe I’m being held for ransom,” he whispers. 

Crowley swims before him, nearly vanishing, before solidifying again. _I think I can sense which direction you’ve gone. What do you need from me?_

“Any help is much appreciated. I’m not meant to do any miracles until the end of the month.” 

_I’ll be right there,_ says Crowley, and then his presence is gone. 

Logically speaking, he ought to just accept his discorporation. It’s his own fault he used too many miracles to warm his cocoa and preserve his old book collection. It’s disobedient to the spirit of Gabriel’s orders, if not the letter, to let Crowley’s miracles save him from here. But Crowley is already on his way, after all, and Aziraphale can’t just _stop_ him from his heroics. That would be tremendously un-angelic of him. 

And he doesn’t want to die. It’s not as good of a reason, perhaps, but Aziraphale can’t deny that he doesn’t want to die. 

He shuts his eyes as he feels time restart around him. Crowley is coming. Ridiculous as it is, it’s a demon’s promise that gives him hope. Crowley has never let him down. 

**4.**

Aziraphale is a being of love. His purpose is to give as much love as possible to the earth, and that’s what he’s tried to do - really, honestly tried - since the garden of Eden. He should not be afraid of it. What kind of absurd world is he living in, where he fears loving someone? But this love is so very different from the grand and wide love he’s known before. This love is small, and concentrated, and _deep_, and utterly terrifying. This love feels like he’s lost every anchor that’s kept him from drifting out into space. This love feels vulnerable. And Crowley can’t possibly feel it back for him - not because he’s a demon, but because what could Crowley possibly see in him? What is there to love about an angel who keeps forgetting he isn’t supposed to be human? 

They sit in Crowley’s Bentley and Aziraphale can’t meet Crowley’s eye. He knows what Crowley wants. Crowley wants this friendship without strict borders, he wants to be free of Hell somehow - that’s why he’s gone to such lengths for this holy water - and he wants them to stop the charade that they’re mortal enemies. And that’s what Aziraphale wants too, if he’s honest with himself. But it’s not all Aziraphale wants. 

“I’ll give you a lift,” says Crowley. “Anywhere you want to go.” 

The implicit question is written over his words large and clear. _What do you need? To be friends with me without always being afraid? What do you need?_

And Aziraphale wants so desperately to reach out and touch Crowley, to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, to brush his thumb over Crowley’s cheek, to feel his lips - _no, no, inappropriate thought, unhelpful._ It’s unbearable holding himself back. But Aziraphale needs his anchors, needs them like the fool he is, and he can’t let them go yet. 

“You go too fast for me,” he sighs, and the implication writes back. _I need time. I’m sorry, I - I need time._

Crowley doesn’t try to stop him leaving the car. Aziraphale works to prevent tears from falling as he walks away, but he doesn’t look back - when Crowley leaves, he never looks back, so Aziraphale must try to do the same. If he’s ever going to get himself under control, ever learn to push away this strange, lonely love that sometimes threatens to consume him, he must start practicing denial. 

He’s an angel. Angels do not have needs. He’ll keep repeating this to himself until he believes it. 

**5.**

Aziraphale is quite an intelligent being, despite some evidence to the contrary. Truth be told he’s known for a long time the reality of Heaven, of the archangels. He’s known what they’re like and what they think of him. He shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t be overwhelmed by it. But he’s beginning to suspect he’ll never truly stop being human. 

“They were going to _kill_ me,” Aziraphale sobs, his face buried in his palms. “What did I do so wrong they had to summon hellfire for me? All I wanted was to be _good._ All I ever wanted…” 

Crowley sits beside him in the bookshop’s back room, leaning forward in his armchair. He’s sympathetic, more sympathetic than any other angel can be. He understands. “It’s their problem, angel. Not yours.” 

“I’ve been trying so hard for so long to _please_ them. I wanted to be what they wanted of me. I pulled away from you - I nearly drove you to leave the Earth there at the end - and for what? They never cared about me! I was _never_ going to be enough for them!” Aziraphale is choked by a fresh wave of sobs. He feels like he’s breaking apart from the inside. 

Crowley slides out of his chair and onto his knees before Aziraphale. He takes Aziraphale’s hands in his, gently, and when Aziraphale meets his eyes, the same tender attention fills his gaze as always has around Aziraphale. 

“Tell me what you need,” he says. “I know this feels terrible. Tell me what you need and I’ll help you.” 

Aziraphale was given a flaming sword, once, and orders to command a battalion. He was a mighty warrior in the last conflict between Heaven and Hell. But it’s been a very long time since then. Here in this place he doesn’t feel mighty at all - he feels soft, and fragile, and so, so close to shattering. And it’s finally coming home to him that this isn’t a fluke, this isn’t a mistake. This is what he’s really like. He _needs._ He needs, and he wants, and oh, he loves in ways he’s never guessed were possible. 

“I…” he drops his head, releasing the weight of having to hold it up on his shoulders. He stops struggling. “Crowley, I need _you._” 

And immediately, without a second of pause, without confusion or disgust or awkwardness, Crowley brings Aziraphale’s hands to his lips and kisses them. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. When Crowley looks up to meet them, his gaze is intense, burning. 

“Then you can have me,” he says. 

It’s like a fire’s been lit inside Aziraphale’s chest. Not just because his heart - that silly, useless, ornamental thing - is beating furiously, or because heat is rushing to his fabricated cheeks, or because the eyes some heavenly authority issued him are suddenly pressed with a searing wetness. It isn’t only because his body is functioning in a way for which it was never really designed. No, this fire is so much larger than Aziraphale he feels it’s going to swallow him - and he wants it to, dear lord, he _wants_ it to. 

“Really?” he breathes. 

Crowley’s hands rise, cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks, cradling his face, and he pulls Aziraphale gently downward so their foreheads touch. Aziraphale sees a slow smile appear on his face. “Angel, I’ve always been yours.” 

In an instant it’s easy to forget who he is. It’s easy to push aside every role that’s ever been forced on him - guardian, soldier, wielder, principality - and let six thousand years of strength and power fall away, unraveling like a hastily wound ball of yarn. It’s easy to fall into Crowley’s arms, let Crowley wrap him inside inky wings, and be nothing but _Aziraphale._

“Crowley,” he says, “I love you.” 

Crowley kisses him. It’s not a hard kiss, not hungry, not reaching or grasping or desiring - no, this kiss is slow, soft, and mild. A kiss that gives, a kiss untroubled in endless offering. Aziraphale melts into it, freeing himself, letting himself be held; he’s never imagined feeling loved like this. He could never have expected such generosity from archangels. 

“I know,” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s mouth. “I’ve known for a long time that you loved me. But I knew you weren’t ready yet - so I waited for you.” 

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale pulls Crowley into another kiss, a deeper one. 

Aziraphale is not quite an angel anymore. He’s not sure how it happened, but he’s he lost the unshakable fortitude God’s servants are supposed to carry. Yet Crowley loves him. It seems impossible, but here he is, his love so palpable Aziraphale wonders how he ever could have missed it, twining through their embrace, holding Aziraphale together so he can, for a moment, stop trying to hold himself. Crowley loves him, and is here for him, and isn’t letting him go. Crowley isn’t afraid of his frailty. _Crowley loves him._

Maybe it’s all right. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of his demon all around, and allows himself to need.


End file.
